


Molly's Garden

by HeayPuckett



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Romance, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Romance, Sleep Deprivation, guest appearance by..., metaphor abuse, post-HLV, serious injury to character, the metaphor that ate my fic, wonky mind palace hijinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 15:02:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1309159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeayPuckett/pseuds/HeayPuckett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of a tragic accident, Sherlock Holmes copes in the only way he knows how. He finds, however, that the solitary places he relies on for sanctuary aren't so solitary any more. Developing Sherlolly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stormweaver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormweaver/gifts).



* * *

_If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need. ~Cicero_

_=======_

“Did all of your dates with John end up like this?” A slightly hysterical Molly Hooper asked.

 

“Don’t make jokes, Molly,” Sherlock Holmes responded, no less on the verge of panic himself, but slightly better at hiding the evidence. Just as he finished speaking, the unsteady scaffolding on which the couple were trying to stand shifted. Metal scraped against metal in an ominous shriek that had them both holding their breaths. “Don’t move!” Sherlock shouted as he himself froze in place.

 

The couple were inside the construction zone of one of the St. Bartholomew’s hospital complex. The old building was being gutted and modernized with open walkways, steel accents and glass. Loads of glass. The precarious arrangement of bent steel bars on which they were standing had separated from the wall just before the two had climbed high enough to reach the catwalk. It was just their luck that they chose to run into the unstable building to escape their pursuers instead of the nearly finished building on the other side. Yes, they had lost the hitmen, but they were now in as much (if not more) danger.

 

Later, Molly would probably laugh about the irony. They had defeated the pretender to Jim Moriarty’s throne (Moriarty Lite, as John had dubbed him), evaded his “back-up plan” consisting of four assassins, only to end up killing themselves with their own bad choice of escape route. If they survived this, Molly was going to use this story to get free drinks in every pub in central London. In the same night. She’d make John Watson pay for the cabs because he bloody well should have been there by now.

 

“Yes, he should have,” Sherlock agreed and it was only then that Molly realized that she had been babbling. Some people cried when they were frightened and some people froze. Molly Hooper lost control of her tongue. Well, it was better than losing control of her bladder.

 

“Agreed,” Sherlock said and Molly resisted the urge to slap a hand over her mouth. She needed both of her hands to stay on that blasted jungle gym from hell. The part of her brain not preoccupied with survival noted how patient Sherlock was being, even though Molly’s steady stream of nonsense had to be annoying. It was that thought that finally allowed a sense of calm to penetrate Molly’s mind enough to calm down and think logically. It wasn’t enough to prevent the scream that erupted from her throat as the scaffolding jerked violently.

 

“It’s okay!” Sherlock shouted, “It’s all right,” he insisted as the sharp movement slowed, “Just be still and settle down. I need think.” Sherlock’s eyes darted around, analyzing their predicament, determining scenarios… obviously not finding a solution.

 

Calm enveloped Molly as she watched Sherlock. She could see as clearly as he that the scaffolding was not going to hold both their weights for much longer. Sherlock was on the side closest to the catwalk just above them. If the scaffolding swayed that way, he could theoretically grab the edge of the walkway and pull himself up. He was tall enough. Molly, on the other hand was on the far side and too far down to hope to reach the edge of the walk way.

 

“This isn’t your fault,” Molly said suddenly, but with firm determination.

 

“Molly, please, do shut up for a moment so I can think,” Sherlock said in the same calm voice he had been using since the situation began. He was still desperately looking for a solution. Molly understood now that there wasn’t one. At least, not one he would care to  consider.

 

“I love you,” Molly said plainly, and oh, how good it felt to say those words out loud _finally_.  With that declaration, Sherlock’s attention focused sharply on her. It only took an instant for the detective to read her intentions, but in the space of that instant, it was too late.

  
Molly could hear Sherlock’s shout of denial even as she fell.

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter Two

* * *

 

Sherlock Holmes submitted himself to the medical attentions of Mary Watson only because he knew a sedative-filled syringe would be the answer to any objection he made. Annoying as being fussed over could be, the idea of being unconscious while Molly Hooper’s fate remained unknown was completely unacceptable.

 

Sherlock kept himself calm by filtering out most of what Mary was saying. A few key words made it through: “concussion” being the most relevant. Of course, he had a concussion. When Molly had let go, she actually pushed away, sending the scaffolding swaying towards the catwalk. Sherlock had been able to leap onto the edge, but over calculated and struck his head on the railing hard enough to lose consciousness. He was out so long that Molly had already been placed in the emergency vehicle and was on her way to A&E before he regained his senses.

 

Thankfully, John Watson had gone in the ambulance with her or else Sherlock wasn’t certain he would have been able to fake his current docile state. He stared hard at the doors that led to the room in which Molly lay, no doubt bleeding from literally a thousand cuts. He had not witnessed her landing, but Sherlock had seen Molly fall. The trajectory would have taken her right into -through- the plate glass partitions.

 

Even if the cuts were localized away from major arteries, massive blood loss would have occurred. Then there was the possibility of damage to the spinal column, skull fracture…

 

“Sherlock,” Mary Watson’s stern voice broke through his mental evaluation of Molly’s probable injuries. She gave his shoulder a little shake. “Look at me, please.” In spite of the “please” it clearly wasn’t a request. Nurse Mary was in full force. Sherlock looked at her, maintaining the passive expression he had adopted as soon as he had been cognizant enough to do so.

 

Mary checked his pupil response along with a few other details and then sighed. “You’ll be fine. Don’t suppose there’s any use trying to get you to stay in hospital?”

 

Sherlock gave her an eloquently condescending look.

 

“Right,” she said wryly, “there’s all the answer I need about your faculties being in order.”

 

She didn’t say anything else, just cleaned up the first aid supplies and sat quietly next to Sherlock. He appreciated Mary’s understanding of his need to be quiet. John tended to pace. Molly tended to babble when she was very upset…

 

When Mary took his hand and gave it a squeeze, he squeezed back.

 

**=======**

 

John Watson burst through the doors to the trauma room and Sherlock immediately jerked to his feet. He momentarily disregarded his concussion to his detriment. The sudden movement not only initiated a splitting headache, it made him dizzy. Mary caught his arm and kept him from falling into the corridor wall. John rushed up and helped him sit back down, squatting in front of the taller man to take a look at his eyes. Sherlock jerked his chin out of John’s hand.

 

“Mary already cleared me,” Sherlock said petulantly. Mary and John shared what Mrs. Hudson called a “married” look, which Sherlock ignored. “How is Molly?” Anyone who didn’t know Sherlock Holmes would think the question a casual one, not asked with any real interest. John knew, however, that the more dire the circumstances, the calmer Sherlock appeared to become. In reality, the man was like a watch spring being wound dangerously tighter and tighter.

 

“They had to do two transfusions, some of the cuts were very serious but the glass missed all major arteries. She has a concussion, too, but no other broken bones. It’s the cuts that are the issue, they’re stitching her up. Our girl will be in hospital for a while, but she’s got a good chance.”

 

“Scarring?” Mary asked. John nodded. Sherlock didn’t care about scars.

 

“When can I- when can we see her?” he asked.

 

John didn’t answer right away. Instead he looked at Sherlock for a moment more and then stood, stretching his back. “As soon as she’s stable enough, they’ll put her in critical care. I’ll make sure you can go back as soon as possible.” He ended by clasping Sherlock on the shoulder. Sherlock looked up at John, looking for any clue that the situation might not be what the older man described. Finally he nodded and John went back the way he came.

 

Hours and dozens of coffees later, Molly was in the critical care ward. She was stable, but still not well enough for the doctors to declare that she would definitely make a recovery. Molly was not in a coma, according to John, but she was still unconscious and likely to remain so for a while yet. Sherlock stood staring down at Molly as she lay, wrapped in layers of bandages, in the hospital bed. Once again, she had given all she could and, once again, Sherlock had no way to repay such self-sacrifice. All he could offer was himself. He didn’t leave her side for 28 hours. As soon as Molly was declared out of danger, Sherlock left. He didn’t see her again for three months.

 

* * *

 


	3. Chapter Three

* * *

 

 

Over the course of the day he spent hovering by Molly’s bedside, Sherlock had subsisted on coffee, painkillers and no sleep. The only reason John hadn’t snuck a sedative into his coffee and hauled him to an observation ward was that Sherlock was actually sitting calmly and not causing a scene. It was as close to resting as the doctor knew he would get from the other man, so he left well enough alone. When Sherlock finally declared he was going back to Baker Street, John and Mary both sighed in relief. Knowing that Molly would be okay, he was surely going back to Baker Street to get some real food and sleep in his own bed.

 

They really should have known better. It wasn’t as though they were new. Sherlock was not about to point their error out to them, in spite of being on the verge of genuine symptoms of sleep deprivation. He did eat a bit when he returned to the flat and downed some only recently out-of-date milk before flopping into his chair. He needed to unclutter his mind now, free it from the emotional backlog he had allowed to accumulate in his mind over the past day.

 

He closed his eyes and opened the doors to his mind palace, walking the familiar corridor to the red oak doors at the opposite end. Entering, he took in the stacks of books that lay about on various tables and the various objects strewn about in his haste to find the bit of information he  needed. It was tempting just to toss it all out. None of it had proved the least bit useful this time around, but that didn’t mean it should be thrown out. Immediately, he set about setting everything to rights.

 

First were the stacks of physics books, treatises on leverage, balance… all of the scientific details that had not helped him figure out a way to get both he and Molly off that death trap. Next were the medical dictionaries which he had referenced with regards to his own injuries as well as Molly’s. Knowing what they were both experiencing helped Sherlock focus on not panicking, not much beyond that. As he puttered about the familiar room, he mused that Mrs. Hudson would be shocked to see how well he tidied this mental space versus the physical space which he occupied.

 

When the room was almost as pristine as it needed to be, Sherlock became aware of a discrepancy. It started as a vague feeling of something being not quite as he had left it, but he couldn’t point to what “it” might be. The feeling grew gradually stronger until it coalesced into a sense of -not wrongness, exactly, but change. Something was different. He stood in the center of the precise place and looked about, concentrating on details that he knew by heart.

 

There.

 

By the bay of window (with the perpetually closed curtains) was a line of light along floor. The line of light began to expand and travel up the wall until it created a square. The square became a door. Odd. He could create a door wherever he wanted (it was his mind after all) but he rarely saw one pop up of its own accord. It only ever happened when his subconscious got out of control.

 

He walked to the door and, without hesitation, threw the door open. He was immediately bathed in bright golden sunlight. Sherlock took a step out of the door onto a narrow path bordered by green clover. The air smelled of various flowers, fresh cut grass and a generally outdoorsy green scent that he never allowed inside his mind palace. Looking back over his shoulder he saw the door leading back into his mental library, the dark interior beckoning him back inside to order and familiarity.

 

Curiosity won out (as it always would with Sherlock Holmes) and he followed the path. It twisted and curved through wild plants and neatly trimmed hedgerows. There were weeds intermingled with cultivated roses, their perfumes mingling into something disconcerting. He finally found himself in a terribly overgrown garden with a decrepit fountain in the middle. As he walked around the fountain, he saw something that made him stop short in shock.

 

There was someone pulling weeds from the flower bed at the base of the fountain. There was someone in this part of his mind he didn’t really remember constructing, tending to the dead plants. The figure sat back and turned to look at Sherlock.

 

He really shouldn’t have been as surprised as he was that it was Molly Hooper who stood up, her hands full of dead weeds, and smiled at him. She looked different: her hair was down, she was wearing that red Christmas jumper she liked and, oddest of all, she was barefoot. Following the direction of his gaze, Molly grinned and wiggled her toes.

 

“I just love sinking my feet into the dirt, don’t you Sherlock? Sherlock?”

 

“Sherlock!”

 

Mary Watson’s voice startled Sherlock enough to pull him unceremoniously out of his mind and back into the real world. He scowled at her and that expression deepened when he saw the clear signs of worry on her face. He kept forgetting that she didn’t have as much experience with his internal excursions as John.

 

“No need to shout, Mary,” he said in what he thought was a very reasonable tone of voice.

 

“No need to shout? I’ve been standing here for 10 minutes!”

 

“I needed to visit my mind palace,” he started, but Mary interrupted.

 

“You’ve got a head injury! It’s hard to tell the difference between a coma and you doing that mental thing without a trip to A & E.”

 

“Why are you here?” he growled.

 

“That’s better,” Mary muttered, “Now I know you’re all right, which is why I’m here. To check on you and give you an update on Molly.”

 

She proceeded to do just that. Nurse Watson went through all of the same tests she performed the previous day and detailed Molly’s condition and care. Sherlock tuned most of this out and, with patience few knew he possessed, waited for Mary to do what she felt she needed to do so that he could get back to… well it wasn’t his mind palace strictly speaking. Whatever that place was, he needed to figure it out soon or it would become a problem. Places like that didn’t just spring up in his well-ordered mind.

 

“Sherlock? I really am going to call an ambulance if you don’t answer me.” Mary was hovering again with that same look of concern on her face. She waited a beat before sighing and asking again, “Do you want me to pop in tomorrow morning and give you a lift to see Molly?”

 

“No,” Sherlock said tersely. He didn’t explain that he had no intention of going back. He had to get himself back in order before he could visit Molly. He didn’t recite all of the excuses he prepared to justify that decision. He just let her pat him on the shoulder and assume he intended to take a cab.

 

Once she was gone, Sherlock didn’t go back to his mind palace. He suddenly felt wary of revisiting that unknown bit of mental real estate that he didn’t remember owning. Instead, he allowed his thoughts to drift to Molly. Mary, John, Mrs. Hudson, even Lestrade, they would all expect him to pay frequent visits until Molly was released. He wouldn’t. He knew when he left the hospital that he would not return.

 

Everyone would disapprove, scold him, and try to convince him to change his mind, but he couldn’t. He would not. None of them would understand why he would be so stubborn. John would come closest to guessing the reason, but he would still be angry. The only one who would truly understand why he felt he had to stay away and not judge him for his reasons was Molly herself.

 

* * *

 


	4. Chapter Four

* * *

 

 

Sherlock Holmes was a basically self-centered man. He saw people in terms of their usefulness. He saw nothing wrong with this. It was an attitude that served him well for years. He wasn’t quite as self-absorbed as he had been. Time and circumstance had changed him, possibly for the better (though he wouldn’t commit to the truth of that just yet). Meeting John Watson and Molly Hooper had changed him. Their friendships had changed him.

 

Gratitude was not a foreign concept to Sherlock, but he was more accustomed to being on the receiving end, filing away favours owed him for future use, but this was different. He owed people now. He could never really repay John Watson, but had at least expressed the debt owed in his best man speech.

 

Sherlock needed to do the same for Molly Hooper, but the question was how? This called for more than a day playing side-kick to the great detective. There would be no opportunity for grand speeches (not that he was capable of doing that again anyway). He had to think of something, some gift he could give Molly to convey the gratitude he felt but could not express in words. Sherlock began to sort through his memories of Molly, looking for a clue to what she might consider an adequate expression of thanks.

 

He was suddenly assaulted with a memory from one of the many “group dinners” Mary insisted on nowadays. This one had consisted of John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, Molly and Sherlock. Somehow, as generally happened when Mrs. Hudson was included, the conversation turned to past romances. Mary and Mrs. Hudson had regaled them (well, regaled Molly -he and John had just been bystanders) with stories of past boyfriends’ grand gestures of love. Eventually the question was asked of Molly.

 

_“Me? Oh, no,” Molly said with a bright, unselfconscious laugh,  “I’m not the sort who inspires poetry or serenades or dances in the rain.” She shrugged, smile still firmly in place. “I’m the sort a man settles for when he’s tired of looking.”_

It was said with a bright giggle and no sign of self-pity. Molly had resigned herself to being second best. Sherlock hadn’t thought much of it that night, in spite of the predictable reactions from the two women (and even John). He knew Molly was a confident woman, more than competent in her field and not given to low self-esteem. Romance was irrelevant. Except now he felt the sting of that statement. Molly Hooper should inspire all sorts of things, but “settling” shouldn’t be one of them.

 

Remembering that conversation, he decided that his present to Molly Hooper would be a song of her very own as composed by Sherlock Holmes himself. It was such a simple plan that it was brilliant! So Sherlock thought, at first. After three weeks of struggling through what should have been a very easy composition, he was ready to throw his violin out of the window. Why was it that Molly Hooper always ended up being more complicated than she seemed?

 

* * *

 


	5. Chapter Five

* * *

 

 

Over the course of the next few weeks, Sherlock Holmes received as many visitors at 221b Baker Street as Molly Hooper did in the critical care ward. As he struggled with a composition worthy of Molly Hooper’s courage and strength, a steady stream of disapproving looks and scathing remarks flowed in and out of the flat. For the most part, Sherlock ignored them, just as he had all those years ago during that confusing situation with Irene Adler. He poured himself into the music and kept himself carefully separate from the distraction of his well-intentioned (but still annoying) friends.

 

Mycroft even showed up once and that was the final straw for Sherlock. He indulged in a bit of a temper tantrum, made worse by the fact that he was running on sheer willpower by that point. He had eaten little and slept less over the past few weeks and even his tightly controlled mind was succumbing to the effects. He finally kicked out Mycroft - it was more accurate to say that Mycroft allowed himself to be kicked out- and set his violin aside.

 

He couldn’t get it right. Weeks had passed and he had yet to compose the first few bars of music. Mind muddled from lack of sleep and adequate nutrition, Sherlock decided to visit his mind palace and sort through his references on music theory. He felt more relaxed the moment he slipped into the familiar confines of the music library in his mind palace.

 

It didn’t take long for the door to make its presence known once again (it was standing wide open this time) and the urge to explore to lead Sherlock back to the decaying garden. Only, it wasn’t decaying this time. It was still unkempt, but much neater and considerably greener than the last time he visited.

 

“You left quite a mess for me to tend.” The voice behind him was familiar. Sherlock turned to find a dishevelled Molly standing in the midst of a pile of leaves, leaning on a rake handle. “Contrary to what you seem to think, neglecting something doesn’t necessarily make it die. Sometimes it just turns into something else.”

 

“I didn’t remember this place even existed,” Sherlock defended, “I can’t be held responsible for neglecting something I didn’t know about.”

 

“You shut this place up a long time ago, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t know it was here,” the Molly apparition said, idly brushing away flecks of dead leaves from her cheerful jumper. She looked up and caught his eye. “You don’t like that it’s here. It’s not the same thing.”

 

Sherlock frowned and looked around. She had made great progress. The fountain, though still cracked and decayed, burbled with water. The trees looked less like dead collections of sticks and more like living things. All around things were beginning to bloom. He looked back at Molly with a hint of wonder. She had done this and he had no idea how.

 

“Places like this take a lot of work,” she said gently, as though speaking to a very excitable child, “as much work as your libraries. It’s a different kind of work that takes a different kind of effort. Sometimes,” she paused and reached out towards Sherlock, allowing the tips of her dirt-covered fingers to brush the back of his hand, “sometimes it’s so difficult it hurts, but nothing will grow here without it.”

 

“The word you’re looking for is hard, dear,” a sultry voice broke in, “Sometimes it’s so _hard_ it hurts. Pain can be quite exciting, though, don’t you think?”

 

Sherlock spun to face the source of the new voice only to be confronted by an apparition of The Woman, in the nude, per usual. She glided up to him and smiled the same predatory smile he remembered.

 

“Pain is pain,” Molly said simply, “but it’s nothing to be afraid of.”

 

“Oh, don’t I know it,” The Woman breathed. “Tell me Mr. Holmes, how did it feel when that sweet young thing slapped you? Three times, was it? Why don’t you describe that pain for me?”

 

Sherlock ground his teeth and stared at the smug defiance of The Woman.

 

“Well, this got out of hand rather quickly.”

 

At the sound of her voice, Sherlock turned back to Molly. He was relieved to see her with the more familiar ponytail and wearing the usual white lab coat. Apparently, however,  that was all she was wearing. Sherlock’s eyes widened fractionally as his gaze traveled over this new version of Molly. She looked down at herself and back at Sherlock. Her eyebrows rose in question.

 "I'd say I'd try not to read too much into this, but... seriously?" Molly asked wryly.

Sherlock jerked away from the two women and spun on his heel. He strode purposefully back along the path, through the door and slammed it shut behind him.

 

“Once you unseal a door, it’s difficult to erase it again.”

 

It was Molly again, but this time it was the more familiar, clinical Molly. Fully-clothed Molly.

 

“I'm not really, Molly you know…” she began hesitantly, “I’m just a visual representation of certain types of information you keep.”

 

“I know that!” he snapped, “You are my forensic knowledge of human anatomy, chemical analysis-”

 

“So why has that place suddenly appeared?” She said, gesturing to the garden still visible through the now-curtainless window, “Why am I there as well?”

 

It was then that Sherlock realized that instead of the pretty pastel blouse she normally wore under the lab coat, Molly was again wearing that red Christmas jumper. Her hair, though pulled back into the sensible pony tail that she always wore, was full of pieces of dried grass and flower petals. A set of dainty, mud covered toes peeked out from underneath the hem of her trousers.

 

“Get out!” Sherlock shouted angrily.

 

“Well, I like that!” Mrs. Hudson shouted back, setting the tea tray she carried down more roughly than the teacups liked. “This is the thanks I get for bringing you your morning tea!”

 

She huffed out, mumbling under her breath. Sherlock rubbed a hand through his dirty hair in frustration. Exhaustion pulled at his toes and crept up through his feet to claim his legs in icy prickles, but he stubbornly resisted the urge to give in to sleep. Instead, he stood, retrieved his violin and began to play.

 

* * *

 


	6. Chapter Six

* * *

 

“You’re doing it wrong, you know.”

 

Sherlock Holmes most certainly did not squeal like a little girl as he whirled around in shock, though one might be forgiven for thinking so. His bow made a teeth jarring sound on the strings as the man was startled. That’s what he claimed anyway when confronted with a smirking Molly Hooper.

 

Of course it wasn’t the real Molly. That woman was still suffering through a painful recovery in a hospital room. This was the same vision of Molly that Sherlock had just left behind in his mind palace. At least, he thought he had left his mind palace. He assessed himself and his surroundings, affirming that, yes, he was awake. His feet hurt, his head ached, and his fingers still tingled from the vibrations on the violin strings. He was awake.

 

So, why exactly was he looking at a version of Molly Hooper that only existed in his head?

 

“Good question,” Not Molly said, “come on, you know this one.”

 

“Sleep deprivation,” Sherlock said to his hallucination. His hallucination smiled and nodded. Sherlock probably should have been concerned by this turn of events, but he was more concerned by what the hallucination of Molly said a few moments ago. “What do you mean, ‘I’m doing it wrong?’”

 

Molly pointed to the violin, “You’re trying to force a song out of yourself for Molly Hooper. It doesn’t work like that.”

 

“What would you know?” Sherlock grumped, narrowing his gaze at this latest annoyance.

 

“I know what you know,” Not Molly said with a pleasant smile as she plopped down into John’s chair, “you conjured me up, after all.”

 

“Fine,” Sherlock spat, “tell me, then. How, exactly, does it work?”

 

“Inspiration,” was the simple reply, “Molly herself said it: she doesn’t inspire songs-”

 

“Oh, shut up!” Sherlock just barely stopped himself from throwing his violin down, “you don’t know anything about it!”

 

“I know that,” Not Molly said pointing at the crumpled sheets of music, “is not about Molly Hooper.”

 

Sherlock felt the fight go out of him and turned wearily to the window. “Just leave me be,” he practically begged.

 

“Sorry, mate,” John Watson said from the doorway, “You’ve been chasing us all away for weeks. I’m not going anywhere this time.”

 

Sherlock turned back to face the room and watched John cross over to his chair. A smirk almost made its way to Sherlock’s mouth as he watched Not Molly practically do a backflip over the back of the chair to avoid being sat on by John Watson. Not Molly gave the doctor a nasty look as he made himself comfortable.

  
  


“I’d ask how you are, but I can see it plain enough,” John said, his eyes falling to the reams of discarded sheets of music,  “This all looks very, very familiar.”

 

Sherlock didn’t say anything as he settled into the chair across from John. There were several minutes of silence while John studied his friend. Sherlock could feel the questions, the concern and, yes, the anger pouring off of the man, but didn’t comment on it. Neither did John.

 

“Molly’s doing well, by the way,” he said with mock casualness, “thought you might like to know, since you haven’t bothered to check in. It was touch and go for a while, no doubt about it, but our Molly’s made of sterner stuff than that,” he paused and gave a decisive nod, “It won’t be easy on her, but she’ll come through.”

 

Sherlock kept his mouth shut, a ploy he knew would simply make the good doctor even angrier. That was how it worked. Sherlock acted like a prat. John pretended to ignore it until his anger exploded and then he left. Sherlock would be alone to peacefully wallow in his severely compromised mental state. Only John wasn’t playing by the rules this time.

 

“So there’s really no reason for you to do this whole,” John waved his hand vaguely, “obsessive composing thing you do when you’re pretending not to be upset.”

 

“I compose because it helps me think,” Sherlock said, voice devoid of any feeling.

 

“Why does it help you think?” John asked, shifting in his seat and resting his chin on his hand.

 

Sherlock sighed, knowing John was not going to leave until he accomplished whatever it was he was supposed to accomplish. Sherlock gave in and  proceeded to explain the mathematical precision of composing, the technical parameters that made the act challenging and the order that naturally flowed from following those parameters.

 

“Hm,” John said, straightening again.

 

“What?” Sherlock said, this time with an ever so slight hint of annoyance hovering just around the edge.

 

“That’s why you enjoy composing,” John replied, “but it’s not why it helps you think.”

 

Sherlock, slowly and methodically, stowed his bow and violin in the case and closed it before turning to his friend. “And why, do you think, it helps me think?” Sherlock said with scorn, enunciating every syllable with force.

 

“Because it’s a way for you to channel your emotions, to get your feelings out of your head on paper,” John said, “turn it into something you can quantify. I was listening to you play while I was coming up the stairs. That,” he emphasized, gesturing to the sheets on the music stand, “is you purging your feelings about Molly and what happened to her. I don’t know a bloody thing about music and even I can hear it.”

 

The Molly apparition standing behind John’s chair looked smug. Sherlock frowned, but didn’t try to contradict his friend. After all, when an escapee from one’s mind palace agrees with one’s best friend, one should probably listen to what they had to say.

 

John stayed long enough to watch Sherlock choke down half a sandwich and a cup of tea. He didn’t even bother trying to convince his friend to sleep (“You’ll pass out soon enough.”), but did insist that he lay off the violin for the rest of the evening. Sherlock agreed. They both knew he was lying. When he came back into the sitting area, he noted that the hallucination of Molly that had been plaguing him all evening was sitting primly once again in John’s chair. She didn’t speak, just smiled at him knowingly.

 

Sherlock settled into his chair and considered what John had said. The technical aspects of composition were what drew him to composing, but, John was right, it was not what drew him to music itself. He reached down to gather some of the discarded pages  of music and regarded them critically. Sherlock stared at the bars and notes, all written in his precise hand. He saw himself in those notes, not Molly Hooper.

 

Sherlock stood, then he picked up his violin, turned away from the music stand and closed his eyes. He pictured Molly as she was the last time he saw her: pale and still in a hospital bed, but he couldn't hold on to that image, because that wasn't Molly. His mind led him further away from the sterile images in black, white and red towards the warmer images of the real Molly, orange, pink, yellow. That was Molly Hooper.

 

He heard her laughter and the bright notes of her voice, fully evident even when she was angry or upset. Without fully realizing it, Sherlock put his violin under his chin and set the bow to the strings. He felt the instrument vibrate to life, pouring out a description of Molly Hooper. There was birdsong and the wind in trees and the laughter of a woman whose spirit could not be dulled by grief or tragedy, even as she lay unconscious. She was a steady stream, small but deep, feeding living things with its pure water.

 

The last note echoed through the flat as he opened his eyes. There was a glimpse of a small smiling face framed against John’s chair and then it was gone. Sherlock stood, stunned at what he had just written, then hurled himself towards the music stand where he furiously began scribbling out the notes for Molly's song.

 

* * *

 


	7. Chapter Seven ~ The End of the Beginning

* * *

 

 

Molly Hooper was being released from hospital that day. John and Mary would pick her up and take her to her flat. They had offered to bring Molly home with them for a few more days, but Molly was adamant about going home. Mrs. Hudson relayed all of these details with her customary cheer as she poured Sherlock’s tea.

 

Though he didn’t show it, Sherlock was excited. He was also quite afraid. folded in his coat pocket was a sheaf of papers bearing the best composition he had ever written. Today was the day he would give it to Molly. He laid himself bare in that piece of music and he was about to offer it to a woman he had not spoken to in three months. Sherlock wasn’t very good at people things, but even he knew that it was a bit much for her to welcome him with open arms.

 

An hour later he was packing his violin in its case and on his way to Molly’s flat. He had timed it so that he would be arriving after the Watsons had had time to settle Molly in her favourite chair, an overstuffed monstrosity situated next to the window overlooking the street.

 

When Sherlock reached the building, he rang the buzzer for Molly’s flat. John answered.

 

“Yes?”

 

“It’s me.”

 

There was a lengthy pause, during which Sherlock wondered if he had buzzed the wrong flat, when finally John’s voice rang out again, “Look, Sherlock, now’s not the best time. Molly’s tired. We just got her home. Maybe we could do this another day?”

 

“John, I,” Sherlock paused not really wanting to have this conversation over an intercom, “just let me in. Please.”

 

“Listen, I know you mean well this time, I really do, but,” John listed a few more reasons Sherlock should stay away from Molly, all of which were perfectly correct and were completely ignored by Sherlock. He stepped away from the front entrance, opened the violin case, and retrieved the instrument. Positioning himself on the street below the window he felt certain Molly was sitting near (in spite of the curtains being drawn), Sherlock began to play Molly’s song.

 

By the time he was finished, a crowd had gathered in front of the building and the violin case was overflowing with donations. Sherlock would be amused by that later, but at that moment his attention was focused on the twitch of the curtains in Molly’s window. He walked back to the entrance and was about to buzz when the door opened revealing Mary Watson.

 

Mary smiled, tears collecting in her eyes as she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and scooted past him. John was just behind her and opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out. He settled for reaching up to affectionately squeeze the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Good job,” he whispered before following his wife out.

 

Sherlock walked up the flight of stairs that led to Molly’s flat stopping when he saw her standing above on the landing. They looked at each other for a few seconds and Sherlock, sensing the invitation to continue, walked up the rest of the way. He stopped on the stair below where Molly was standing, almost, but not quite, putting them at eye level.

 

They just stared at each other for a long time. Sherlock took note of the bandages peeking out from underneath Molly’s long sleeved, high neck blouse. There were likely many more bandages he could not see. There was one very prominent bandage covering most of the left side of her face. When his eyes lingered on that bandage too long, Molly blushed and moved to cover it. Sherlock caught her hand by the wrist and pulled it away.

 

Sherlock leaned forward to press his lips to her cheek, just at the edge of the bandage, lingering there as he catalogued the sensory details. Her skin was soft beneath his lips. He noted the smell of antiseptic cream to keep her wounds from becoming infected and the smudge of baby powder on her shoulder where Mary rested her chin during their brief embrace.  He brushed his lips along her cheek, then, without giving himself time to think or Molly time to react, Sherlock pressed his lips to hers.

 

It was a chaste kiss, unsatisfying for Molly he was sure, but it was all Sherlock could manage at the moment. He ended the kiss and pulled back enough to look Molly in the eye.  He saw emotions flowing deep there, but of what kind, he wasn’t sure. He was better at faking emotions than understanding them

 

Sherlock didn’t like feeling out of his depth about anything and avoided those areas in which that was likely to occur. Somehow Molly Hooper had eased her way past that reluctance. He didn’t like being confused about anything, but knew that Molly was one of two people who wouldn’t take advantage of his vulnerability.

 

"I don't know how to do this," he admitted in an even voice, "I know how to pretend to do it, but..." His voice trailed off.  This was one of those exceedingly rare moments when Sherlock simply didn't know how to put what he wanted to say into actual words. Molly, as always, understood.

 

"It’s okay," she said in a near whisper, "we can go as slowly as you need."

 

_As slowly as you need._

_What do you need?_

 

“What do _you_ need, Molly?” Sherlock asked before he could stop himself, before he could think about what exactly he was asking. Molly just continued to look at him with the same gentle, kind expression she always bestowed upon him in such moments.

 

“That was a beautiful song,” Molly said softly, “What is it called?"

 

Sherlock hesitated, studying her face carefully. "Molly's Garden."

 

Sherlock felt a little thrill when Molly looked startled. He liked to know he wasn’t the only one feeling off kilter over the situation. Seeing the question in her eyes, he answered with his own unwavering gaze. _Yes, Molly. It’s your song. I wrote it for you. It says all of the things I cannot._

 

Molly swallowed a few times then smiled and asked, “Will you play it again?”

 

Sherlock nodded. Molly took his hand and led him across the landing and into her apartment. The elderly neighbours, generally the type to complain about too-loud stereos or yowling cats, didn’t complain once about the incredibly beautiful violin solo that drifted through their halls that night. Instead they spent the next few days gossiping about Molly’s new beau, trying to decide if he was a professional violinist or that detective chap they kept seeing pictures of in the papers.

 

* * *

 


End file.
